


what's rotten in you burns / and burns

by ultraviolence



Category: Catalyst: A Rogue One Novel - James Luceno, Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Dirty Talk, F/M, Hate Sex, Infidelity, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 04:29:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10914354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultraviolence/pseuds/ultraviolence
Summary: "She liked the taste of him, and there was something about liking the taste of someone you hated with a blazing passion, something vile and detestable that crawls underneath her skin and devoured her from the inside out."Four times Krennic dropped by the Ersos' apartment when Galen isn't home, and the one time Lyra came to him. Also known as: the temptation of Lyra, or, Krennic tries to steal Galen by baiting Lyra into an affair with him. She had plans of her own, however.





	what's rotten in you burns / and burns

**Author's Note:**

> Right. So I had plans to write a fic for this crack as hell ship I invented a while ago on Tumblr with @genmaximilianveers just cause we can and we had way too much free time on our hands. And my nefarious plan finally saw completion. I haven't read Catalyst in a while, so I apologise in advance for any mistakes especially in timeline. Consider this my take on the Lyrennic relationship, if you will.
> 
> So, without further ado: enjoy!

The first time he dropped by, it was after she and Galen had just moved back to Coruscant.

Jyn—tiny Jyn, Galen’s stardust and the light of Lyra’s life—was asleep in their room, herstar-flecked eyes hidden behind her eyelids, breathing evenly, drifting on her own in the far off sea of unconsciousness. Lyra’s not the one to stay still, so she had been rearranging some furniture to distract herself, following a friend’s advice.

The building intercom chimes. Lyra wipes a sweat off her brow, promptly leaving the coffee table that she’d been repositioning in the living room, absently wondering who—or what—it might be.

“Yes?” She told the intercom, after pressing the button.

“A visitor, Mrs Erso,” the droid receptionist’s mechanical voice answered, clipped and even. “Said he’s on an important business.”

“Who is it?” She asked, suspicion seeping into her voice. Not a lot of her or her husband’s friends and acquaintances know that they had moved back to their old address. It had scarcely been two months since their rescue from Vallt. They were barely settling in, so they hardly had time to properly socialise and reintegrate themselves into the life that they’d left behind. What spare time they had—especially hers—was poured into Jyn and her care.

“A Mr Krennic, Mrs Erso.” Someone was speaking in the back, too faint for Lyra to hear, and the droid quickly corrected itself before she could give it a response. “I meant to say Lieutenant Commander Krennic.”

Lyra’s lips curled down in distaste. What is _he_ doing here, today, and more importantly, _for what?_ She tried not to let her vivid repulsion show. 

“Send him up,” she simply said in response and turned off the intercom.

She tried not to pace the length of the apartment while she waited for the inevitable interaction. She gritted her teeth. Stars, she thought that it was bad enough that _he_ had to be the one the Republic had sent to pick them up—if that was even the entire truth, and with Krennic, Lyra was certain that it’s not the case—now he had to come over without comm-ing either of them.

Or was that his intention precisely? Lyra smoothed her tunic and her hair, not out of any desire to look appealing to Krennic, but to be polite. _He_ may think that she was rough and uncivilised, in private if not to her face directly, but she will not forget her social graces. 

Even when it comes to dealing with Orson Krennic.

The door buzzer chimed, and Lyra—out of spite, if not outright boiling hate—let it chimed three more times before she finally deemed the door worthy to be opened. She put on her best, cheeriest smile.

“How nice of you to come visit us this fine afternoon, Orson!” She remarked, slipping in an undertone of a singsong voice that she knows he hated. A casual observer and someone who didn’t know him would miss it, but Lyra noticed the way his lips subtly curved into a frown that matched hers earlier. “Did you come to see Jyn?”

A blank look crossed his expression for a second, then quickly replaced by irritation, until he pushed both away with a smile, as fake and manmade as the droid receptionist’s robotic parts. Lyra still hadn’t made any move to let him in.

“No, no, I didn’t come to see the child,” he quickly pointed out, shifting his weight. “Is Galen here?”

A loaded question. Lyra paused, still blocking the doorway, not letting him in just yet. Turning the question over in her mind. Trying to determine what kind of game he’s playing now.

“No,” she told Krennic, tentatively, the suspicion creeping back into her voice. “Why didn’t you comm him first if it’s him you’re looking for?”

She almost added: _didn’t you guys used to do that? Hang out all the time? I guess not anymore_ , but she bit her tongue. Krennic looked thoughtful, then impassive. He answered her question with a reassuring smile.

“I did, but he didn’t pick up,” he told her, his friendly facade easy to believe. But Lyra had never trusted those who smiled too easily, and she certainly had never trusted Krennic. Not since day one. “I have a couple of datacards that might be of use to him. I promised him last night that I’m going to drop them here. Now,” he looked at her imploringly, his expression open yet unreadable, “can I come in?”

Oh, how sweetly he asked. Lyra looked at him then—really looked at him—Galen’s oldest and closest friend, their rescuer, his uniform as crisp and pristine as the rest of him. But, Lyra thought, there is something else, a wavering, superimposing image, another Krennic, one that she and the world cannot quite see, but it’s there.

A mirage. She stepped aside, lightly. The mirage was gone.

“Come in,” she told him, and he smiled charmingly. She wondered—a fleeting thought—how he’d look like, with his hair askew and her name on his lips.

His arm brushes hers lightly as he moved past her, never one to ask for permission. She closed her eyes for a second, trying to banish the images from her mind.

_He is up to something and he was never a good influence to Galen_.

“Where can I put this?” He asked her, turning slightly, afternoon light framing his profile. She held herself back from biting her lip.

“On his desk, in his study,” she responded, gesturing towards the direction of Galen’s study, moving to close the door behind her. “Don’t be long.”

Krennic was already taking a step towards the direction Lyra had indicated, brisk and purposeful, but he stopped in his tracks at her last remark. The harshness of her tone didn’t escape his notice. He turned back towards her, a small, secretive smile playing on the corner of his lips. She didn’t like that expression at all.

“Lyra, Lyra, Lyra,” he cooed sweetly, his ice blue eyes as cold as the glaciers on Vallt. “Of course _I_ won’t be long. I have work to do. I’m only here to drop by some research data as your _husband_ requested.” Their gaze meets, and Lyra felt jolted, felt like someone had just poured a bucketful of cold water on her. She glimpsed something, just for one second, the man behind the mirage, but Krennic quickly regained his composure, his affable smile already returning. “I’ll show myself out after. Don’t trouble yourself.”

He went on his way, and Lyra felt a shiver down her spine, along with the resurgence of the familiar burning hatred she felt earlier. It left a bad taste in her mouth, like poison.

Orson Krennic is poison, she was sure of it, and she will find something she can use against him.

* * *

The second time he came around, she was only a little more prepared than the first time. Lyra was tidying the bookshelves this time, and it had been two weeks since Krennic’s impromptu visit. She’d told Galen about it, of course, later after he comes back after the seminar he’s giving at the university, but he only frowned, and went straight to his study. She tried bothering him about it, but he seemed secure in his own need for secrecy, his own natural aloofness wrapping him like a cocoon. Lyra didn’t try bothering her husband very hard—she knew he’d only react badly if she pushed him at times like this, so she let him be—and instead retreated to Jyn’s room, once more trying to distract herself.

It works, but only for a short while. Late that night, after dinner, she found herself lying awake, Galen sleeping soundly beside her on their marriage bed. For a moment she considered leaving a message to Orson—a pointed one, at that—but then she decided against it.

She closed her eyes, squeezed them shut, and all she could see was his smile at the doorway, his profile framed by the faint afternoon light, his cold blue eyes smart, calculating. She wondered what it would feel like, kissing that smile. She wondered if her husband did, too, at some point, or if he’s still doing it now, even as she and Galen slept together every night, side by side, back to back, sometimes not even sleeping. Although rarely, if ever, now.

She wondered about a lot of things. Sleep didn’t come easy for Lyra that night. She let her own fingers stray, parting her thighs, imagining the man in white on top of her.

And now he’s here again. The intercom buzzed, she had a feeling of who it might be, and she told the droid receptionist to send him up, just like the last time. Then he was at the door, again, a shimmering image of a man, this time with a bottle of expensive vintage.

“A little homecoming gift,” he told her, shrewdly. “It has also come to my attention that I haven’t given both of you a wedding gift.”

_You didn’t even show up to our wedding_ , Lyra almost blurted out, but once more bit her tongue. She began to sense something here, perhaps a pattern, or something else—and she didn’t want to spook Krennic off too soon. 

“How very kind of you,” she told him, smiling sweetly. Two can play this game. “And here I am, feeling almost sorry that I’d hoped the turbolift was damaged in some way and killed you in the resulting accident.”

He snorted, his features contorting into something resembling an angry animal for the split of a second before he affected back his gracious smile.

“That’s sweet,” he retorted, taking a step forward. She could almost see the man behind the mask, pacing like a caged feline, waiting for the right moment to pounce. Lyra braced herself. “But I’m not here to trade blows with you, Lyra. Are you going to let me in or not?”

Something in the way he said it—implying that she’s not a worthy opponent, or in the way he phrased his question, demanding and impertinent—makes Lyra’s blood boil, and she almost took a step forward, too, almost letting her fist touch his cheekbones, wondering how it’d feel like. 

A moment passed between them, invisible to the rest of the world, and she swallowed. His expression was impossible to read, an unknown region isolated from the rest of galaxy. She stepped aside. Krennic smiled.

“Thank you,” he told her, the faintest touch of his calloused finger on her cheek.

She took a long shower after he left, but she still felt the ghost of it afterwards.

* * *

They kissed the third time around. It was not a searching, exploring kiss, like what lovers do the first time they were together, and it was not an ardent, rough kiss, like what strangers do after too many nights of loneliness. No, they are not strangers. It would be a mercy if they are. They had too much baggage, too much history—if it can be called that—between them, and Lyra poured all her hate into it, all her mistrust, all the things she had bottled up ever since Orson shows up on that godforsaken planet, barely three months ago.

Neither of them even knows how it happened, or who started the fire. She only remembered that they were arguing, not even trading blows as he called it, and then her back was against the bookshelf—Galen’s bookshelf, in his study—and all she could think about was his lips on hers and the blazing, sacred hate between them.

It was an obscenity. She pushed him away first, both of them catching their breaths, both of them circling each other like two warriors on the battlefield. Or a vulture and a dead body. She wondered who is which. Lyra broke the silence first.

“Are you really here to drop by some more datacards, Orson?” She finally asked him, smoothing her hair, the memory—and knowledge—of the kiss infuriated her, fanning her hate of him. Of his relationship with Galen and all the years and days and nights and projects she wasn’t privy to. Of the closed-off intimacy that they had together, the secret gazes they shared when they thought she wasn’t looking. She hated all of it with a zealous passion that would shame even the most hate-filled of the mythical Sith. She thought the arrival of Jyn would cut off Galen’s ties to the past. It didn’t. “Or are you just lying off your ass as usual?”

A flicker of anger lit up his eyes, kindling his expression, and she—for one accursed second—thought him the most beautiful creature she’d ever seen, second to none. Not even her own husband. She hated herself even more for that. 

“Yes and no,” he told her, smoothing himself too. A vain bastard. “But that’s really none of your business.”

She snarled, and pulled him in for another harsh kiss, their lips bruising each other the way their words never could. Before he could get too satisfied, however, she pushed him away.

“Leave now,” she told him, matching the snarl he gave her at that moment exactly, “don’t ever come here again. Least not when Galen isn’t here.”

He bared his teeth at her, challenging, his pretence of sophistication falling away, replaced by the face Lyra had always suspected was there. But it’s most likely still not the monster in the middle of the labyrinth that she’d been looking for. She tensed, ready to act, to fight, but Krennic draws back, smoothing his uniform, slipping back behind his smoke and mirrors. A magician giving her a show.

“Oh, but you’ll miss me,” he taunted her, sneering. His eyes held a promise and a challenge. She met his gaze, defiant. He laughed, a practised sound, and made his farewell—Jyn started crying from her room—but there is a sinking feeling in Lyra’s stomach even after Krennic left.

She’d given in. She’d betrayed her husband. And somehow, it’s even worse because she knows what he said was true. She’d miss him like she missed a childhood nightmare, a phantasm from the past, and in the meanwhile, he can pull her strings whenever he felt like it, and made her dance, or jump, or stumble and fall.

Lyra was determined not to dance for the puppetmaster. Least of all to be his puppet.

* * *

The fourth time Krennic dropped by—and Lyra knew that her warning would go unheeded—she had all her cards lined up and ready, and she was ready to seize control. It had been six months, now, since Vallt, since her and her husband’s return to Coruscant, the sparkling city-planet just as busy and artificial as ever, and it had been three months since Orson’s last impromptu visit. Of course, they still see each other every now and then—as busy and important a man he seemed to be, he always somehow had time for them, well, for Galen, at least—but they’ve never been alone in the same room together anymore, and if a possibility of it somehow had arisen, Lyra quickly left said room. She knew Orson knew, but she really doesn’t care.

She also knew he probably knows about the guilt. Oh, the searing pain of it, the burning shame of what she had done. Every night it crossed her mind, and she tried banishing it—first by taking Jyn with her on her daily walks near the Jedi Temple, and then by meditating every morning without fail—but it kept coming back, a phantom, intent on haunting her for life. 

Lyra even tried waking up her husband one night, and climbed on top of him, her body eager, but still, still, even then, she can’t get the kiss out of her mind, can’t banish the memory of Krennic’s lips against her, the blazing, sacred hatred, and she rode Galen to completion that night, her sex slick with his seed afterwards, but all she could think about was Krennic, Krennic, _Krennic_.

Even as she slid down from her husband, exhausted, still sore from him, his arms around her and his gentle lips against her dark hair, even as sleep claimed him and she could feel his rhythmic breathing, soft against the darkness pressing on them from all sides, Lyra wondered how it would feel like to have Krennic inside her.

Lyra wondered, and Lyra wondered, and Lyra wondered. The next night she woke Galen again, but this time she didn’t even _try_ —she was thinking of Orson, and their mutual hatred, and her own jealousy, noxious and troublesome.

She came, hard, and as the reality came crashing down on her, she felt vengeful, petty. Galen is not Orson.

Then one day a couple of weeks later the intercom buzzed. 

“What is it this time?” She asked him then, when he was once more at her door, dark eyes glittering with barely suppressed loathing. He didn’t smile, his posture holding an unspoken challenge. So that’s how he’s going to play it, she thought.

“Important news,” Krennic told her, cocking his head slightly, and she wanted nothing more at that moment but to ruin his cheekbones, or perhaps to pull him in by the hair and kiss him roughly, even rougher than the last time, rougher than her fantasies. “But seeing as Galen doesn’t seem to be home, even if he told me that he would be, I think I’ll drop by again later tonight.”

His smile was slight, perfunctory, slightly mocking, and even if he didn’t actually do it, she felt as if he was bowing, as if there was some invisible curtain and it’s falling right now. He already turned to leave—always one to play the role with absolute dedication—but she called him back, barely stopping herself from reaching out and pulled him by the arm.

“Aren’t you going to stay and chat for a bit?” She asked him, her voice high and sweet, with only the slightest hint of her loathing on the edges. She smiled, then, widely, challenging.

“If you’re asking me,” he said, a flutter of assent, gaze briefly resting on her lips. Lyra let it curled down in a subtle display of distaste Krennic had come to know so well. It was his turn to smile, and he did. “Then yes.”

She stepped aside to let him pass.

“Then come on in,” she invited, her smile tight, her body tense with anticipation. They were past the time of rehearsals, she thought, now it’s time for the real performance.

She barely closed the door behind her when he made his first move. He pins her against it, his body taut against hers, lips hot, first on her own, then down to her throat, teeth sinking in—

Lyra pushed him away. He looked furious. She grinned.

“Not here, Orson,” she demurred, keeping him, literally, on an arm’s length. “We’re going to have our little _chat_ in Galen’s study. And don’t wake up the little one.”

He glared daggers at her, a man who doesn’t take rejection very well—nor delays—impetuous and imperious. She let him go, watching him retreat a couple of steps, snarling, this time not making any attempt to hide it. Strangely, she likes it. It was better than all his artificial smiles, the polite-but-just-slightly-sarcastic laughters he had given her. She knows what he thinks of her the first time Galen introduced her to him: poor homely bitch, grasping for Galen’s affections like a dirty, dying stray. 

She knows what Orson thinks of her, now and always: _thief of Galen’s affections_. She smiled, ever so slightly, keeping an eye on him.

“You rarely sleep with him anymore,” he observed, and she let her knuckle caressed his cheek. He cringed from her touch but pulled her in, his lips just as demanding as the rest of him, and she let him, grasping his shoulder. 

“You’re wrong,” she whispered, and, watching the jealousy lit up his eyes like the heavens were all aflame, she punched him, fist connecting to his cheek, and he wasn’t reacting fast enough—wasn’t _seeing_ that coming—to evade. He reeled back, then, eyes ablaze, more alive than she’d ever seen him, in the time that she’d had the unfortunate luck to know him. 

“Fuck you, Lyra,” Krennic spat out, hand instinctively going to his bruised cheek. It wasn’t a hard enough punch, per se, but Lyra knows that it hurts real good—she put not only all her loathing towards him and everything he stands for, everything he kept a secret about, all the little mind games he’s playing and all the years and days and nights that he’d stolen Galen away from her, but also all her weight. Most importantly, she knew how much of a vain bastard he is, and how much he valued keeping up appearances.

She only grinned, baring her teeth the way he did. 

“No, fuck _you_ , Orson,” she told him, as casual as swatting a fly, even if she is inwardly seething with barely suppressed hatred. “Now that we’ve got that cleared out, let’s fuck. I don’t care much about anything that comes out of that lying mouth of yours, and I think you know I think of you as no less than as a duplicitous piece of shit, but I’ll fuck you. Are we clear?”

If Lyra was inwardly seething, fury was written all over Krennic’s expression. But then something evidently crossed his mind, and he simmered down, once more conniving, once more calculating. Lyra was almost disappointed. But never mind, she had plans of her own.

“I would consider that an insult,” he replied, pacing, “ _if_ I considered _your_ opinion at _all_.”

“Shut the fuck up,” she told him, voice a little higher than she intended it to be, and his lips curled up into a sneer. “We’re done with our chat. Now _shut up_.”

He laughed, a cold, high laugh, something that makes her blood run a little cold, and he stepped closer. She froze on instinct, furious at herself, furious at him for his petty schemes that put her in this place, furious at _Galen_ —and he kissed her, hard, pushing her back until her back’s against the wall, one hand pinning her wrist. She used her free arm to pull him in by his collar, biting his bottom lip hard enough to bruise.

His lips found her neck and her collarbone and her shoulder, and she was gasping as she pushed him away, her eyes wide, his eyes eager, covetous. 

She wanted him, and she wanted him, and still, their hate sat between them, blazing, sacred. Calamitous.

* * *

The fifth time around, Lyra came for him instead, to his office near the Federal District, dropping by unannounced. She smiled a polite, Coruscanti smile at the receptionist—a human instead of a droid, unlike in her apartment building—and mentioned who she’s visiting.

“I don’t think he’s here now,” the receptionist told her, a human girl a decade or so younger than her, in a business suit. A civilian. Her gaze was cursory, shifty, and her slight smile was professional. She was pretty, in a drab sort of way. “But I’ll ask upstairs.”

“That would be great,” Lyra said, giving her another smile, a friendlier one. “Or you know what? Don’t trouble yourself. Just give me his floor number and I’ll see by myself. I’m a good friend of his, you see.”

She looked like she’s going to argue, but Lyra kept her gaze fixed on her, smile unwavering. The receptionist caved and typed something on her computer.

“Floor 08,” she told her, a tiny hint of resentment and annoyance seeping into her voice. “First office on the right.”

“Thank you,” Lyra told her, taking the visitor card she was given, before going on her way.

It had been a year, now, a year since her return to Coruscant, a year of her husband pacing around the house growing ever more frustrated with each passing day, and six months ever since she and Krennic fucked for the first time.

“What would Galen say if his closest friend is fucking his wife behind his back?” Lyra can’t help but say afterwards, in a faux sweet tone that she knows Krennic hated, and perhaps even more so by now. He’s already getting dressed after their session, she on the desk, him on top of her, datacards and papers that she had stacked so nicely after her husband once more messy and all over the place. It wasn’t ideal, but she’s not going to fuck him on her marriage bed, not yet. And she doesn’t want to risk the proximity with Jyn.

He glanced at her, then, pulling on his regulation undershirt, evidently turning the question over in his mind. Or at least seemingly like it.

“What would _he_ say if his _wife_ is fucking his friend—“ his lips curled in disdain at this, a tell that Lyra had learnt to recognise, “—behind his back? Because _she_ was deeply _unsatisfied_ with their _marriage_?”

Her hands balled into fists reflexively. He was pulling on his briefs, trousers, then his tunic. She thought again of how good he felt, inside her, her nipples hard against his naked chest, fingers raking his back, all the time thinking shame, shame, _shame_. She’d wanted it so bad. She dipped her head for a moment at the thought of this, the shame and the embarrassment and the anger returning, but then quickly raising it again, meeting his gaze head-on. 

“You can keep telling yourself that,” she hissed, getting up from her accidental perch on the desk and picked her own tunic from the floor. “In fact, you can keep _believing_ that, Orson. You and that crooked, sick brain of yours.”

He regarded her, then, sideways, stopping for a moment, once more framed by the afternoon light, once more insoluble, ineffable. Once more a mirage. He belted his tunic and smoothed it, the tiles on his white uniform glinting ever so slightly in the light. Lyra wanted to rip them off.

This is where she found herself now: in a turbolift, heading up to _his_ office, the interplay between the light and the rank insignia on her mind. Something about him reminded her of the way the sun glinted on the ice back on Vallt.

Something about him bothered her so, so much.

She was angry at herself, at that time, for playing her card, her weapon against him. She’d hatched a scheme of her own, wanting to use the affair—which Lyra was sure was another ploy of his, a _trap_ —against him, his own weapon, but she’d spoken way too soon, and a question had been haunting her mind since then: who would Galen trust more, her or Krennic?

Who has Galen’s complete and unquestioning faith, her wife, or his closest friend (and, she had long suspected, his lover)? 

She doesn’t come here to find out. She’s here to fuck him, and—if possible—to end this affair. The turbolift stopped at her destination. Lyra stepped out of it. She kept to herself, keeping a bland expression, remembering what the receptionist told her.

Lyra only pressed the buzzer because someone might be watching. But there is no response. After a moment’s hesitance, she glanced around, and, seeing as there’s nobody passing by, she held out her visitor’s card to the scanner. Then she waited for it to confirm her identity.

She waited with bated breath. The light turned green, and the door slides open. She stepped in.

It was a nice office—she had to admit, albeit grudgingly—larger than she thought, although it’s most likely because of the arrangement of the furniture. There is the standard desk-and-chair setup with a large window behind it, which offered a stunning view of the Federal District, with other various military and civilian headquarters visible in the distance. Lyra spared both the desk and the room a cursory glance. The desk was clean, although there are some papers and reports stacked there, and the rest of the room was just as clean and neat, with various accolades and accomplishments displayed on the wall, and a couple of tasteful decors here and there. 

Overall, it is unmistakably Orson’s office, although it’s too clean and neat, and something about it just doesn’t felt right to her.

Her original plan definitely doesn’t include coming to an empty office—part of her was, unfortunately, disappointed—but then again, she thought, she could spin this to her advantage. Krennic isn’t the only one who can scheme. Lyra entertained the thought with a certain distaste—the Jedi are above such pettiness and it’s not good to impose one’s ego on the will of the Force, for she believed that all is as the Force wills it—but she would do it. She would do it if that means finding out about Orson’s secrets, including his possible affair with Galen, and protecting her family.

Protecting Jyn. Her heart clenched like a fist at the thought of her. She left her in the care of a trusted friend while she was here.

She moved to his desk fluidly, wasting no time, the thought of her family in her mind. She might just be paranoid, and so far she hasn’t found any concrete evidence that Krennic was doing anything harmful, not to mention that Lyra had no idea as of yet of what he’s aiming and scheming for, but she trusted her intuition. 

She was about to inspect a stack of reports when the door slid open.

“Well,” the owner of the office remarked airily, holding a cup of caf on one hand, gaze resting on her casually, curiously, “this is a rather nice surprise, isn’t it?”

He strode over to her, as pristine and neat as his office, stopping some distance away from her. Examining her. Lyra belatedly realises, much to her chagrin, that she was frozen in place the moment that Orson walked through the door. She quickly gathered herself, hoping that her embarrassment wasn’t evident.

“Orson,” she sputtered, turning around to face him. “I thought I’d wait for you.”

“Really?” He told her, doubt written all over his face. “And in the meanwhile you think you’d take a peek at my things, poking around like a malfunctioned droid?” His voice was cold, and he smiled at her sweetly as he took a seat behind his desk, putting the caf on the desk. “You’re not fooling anyone, Lyra, my sweet.”

She could feel anger rising inside her, like a bile, a thick black bile that she forced herself to swallow, again and again, whenever she was interacting with him. At the same time, still, she wanted him, and still, she’s _ashamed_ of it—

“You won’t be afraid if you have nothing to hide,” she told him, haughtily, chin up, hands balled into fists. 

“And _you_ have nothing to hide?” He retorted, calmly, sipping his drink. In control. “I would have thought that your increasing, ah, _spiritual_ activity lately indicated otherwise.”

Anger blazed inside Lyra now, holy, righteous fury, burning even brighter than her hatred of him, and it took her every bit of her self-control not to just jump on his throat right there and then. His throat. She thought of him on top of her, fucking her on Galen’s desk, his throat bared, and she worshipped it with her tongue, with her lips—

“You don’t know _anything_ ,” she countered hotly, feeling her face burning. Krennic regarded her coldly, and she thought, this is another side of him. The scientist behind the monster. She doesn’t know which side of him scared her the most. 

“On the contrary,” he said, lips curling up into a smirk, half-hidden behind his cup before he set it down again, drained of liquid. “I know a lot of things. I know, for one, that you’ve been visiting a certain brothel at a certain seedy level of Coruscant—“

“ _Stop_ ,” she cuts him off, the vehemence in her voice surprised even herself. “You won, Orson. What do you want?”

His blue eyes glittered with a lot of things then—greed, lust, power. _Triumph_. Lyra forced herself to swallow her bile of hate. She doesn’t know how she ever thought him beautiful. How _Galen_ thought him beautiful, good, worthy of his trust. In this moment he just looked terrible, a tyrant exposed, and she hated that, amongst other things, it made her want to touch herself, come with his name on her lips, again, again, again.

How many nights had she done that, with Galen by her side. Sometimes with him participating. Her husband had no idea. Krennic beckoned, and she comes over, hating herself even as she did so.

“I already have everything I need, Lyra,” he said, his tone sickeningly sweet, inviting. A flutter of finger tipping her chin. “You and your husband both. But you’re right. I don’t want to talk. I want to fuck you.”

She could feel his other hand, reaching down her trousers, parting her thighs. A brush of fingertips there, right where she wanted him. She bit her lip.

“I want to fuck you so hard that you won’t be able to walk out of here,” he continued, grinning now, fingering her sex lightly, his other hand caressing her cheekbone. “Would you like that? You’d like that, wouldn’t you, being the dirty whore you are? I know you’re ashamed of yourself,”

“I know you’re _not_ ,” Lyra was able to muster, distracted by his touch, face growing hotter with every caress and she was wet already, she wanted Krennic to just go through with it and just fuck her, flung her to his desk like the last time—

“On your knees,” he cooed, and she did, almost automatically, cursing herself mentally. “And no more talking. I’ll make sure of it.”

He unbelted his tunic, then, and takes it off—Lyra let her eyes roved over his now-exposed arm and his torso, now only covered by the same regulation undershirt that she’d seen before—flung it to his desk, and looked her over. A shiver went down down her spine, her need for him blazing even brightly than before.

He unzips his trousers, and she knows where this is going, but still, the anticipation racked her, and she licked her lips, touching herself only ever so lightly. He smiled at her, flippantly, the faintest touch of warning in his smile, taking his cock out. 

“This is taking too long,” she muttered, already impatient. “You’re such a fucking show-off, Orson.”

“Shut up and do as I say, Lyra,” he told her, seating himself comfortably, stroking his cock. Getting himself hard. Since she wasn’t very keen on following orders, especially not from the likes of him and definitely not from Orson Krennic—even if it turns her on—Lyra took it upon herself to improvise. She covered the small distance between them—crawling on all fours, she knows it aroused him—and took the liberty of taking his cock, first on her hands, then to her mouth. He let out a gasp before settling his hands on the sides of her head, guiding her. 

“If you’re good, I’ll fuck you afterwards,” he remarked, and she wanted to laugh. He really _is_ a disgusting, petty bastard. Lyra shuts him up by moving her lips, sucking his length. Krennic ceased altogether from making sentences, then, turning instead into a series of curses and barely stifled moans, her name punctuating it every now and then, breaths coming in ragged and hard. He didn’t beg. But she expected that from him, and still, she brought him closer and closer to completion, her own cunt slick and ready for him.

He pushed her away before he could climax, and Lyra only felt the tiniest bit of disappointment, which quickly turned into excitement. He’s going to fuck her. 

“Fuck,” he said, catching his breath, eyes wide, still hard. She wanted to ride him like there’s no tomorrow. And still, there was that hate between them, ever-present, unchanging. “I fucking hate you, bitch, but you’re fucking good.”

“Now shut the fuck up and fuck me,” Lyra told him, getting to her feet, licking her lips. She liked the taste of him, and there was something about liking the taste of someone you hated with a blazing passion, something vile and detestable that crawls underneath her skin and devoured her from the inside out. Her self-hatred and her shame and her embarrassment would gang up on her later that night, and she knows that she would fuck Galen, too, out of pity and guilt, on their marriage bed, Jyn safe and sound in her own bed, but right now Lyra Erso doesn’t care.

She only wanted Krennic inside her, and that’s all that matters. She didn’t give him time to react, already pulling him from his seat, towards her, their lips colliding violently, his naked length pressed against her thigh. She was so wet for him, and she was his dirty whore—

He pushed her to his desk, and Lyra forgot about everything else. Even Jyn, even her husband.

* * *

“You don’t have to be ashamed of yourself, Lyra.”

She was pulling up her trousers, her tunic lying somewhere in the vicinity, and she froze momentarily at his sudden remark. The sex had been as messy as she had expected it to be, even messier than the last time, and it was even better than she remembered. She wanted it rough, she wanted it messy, she wanted him to fuck her like she was his whore, and Krennic delivered it to her in spades. Although, Lyra knows, more for his benefit than hers. He was having an even harder time concealing his blatant dislike of her than her towards him, ever since the fateful night when Galen introduced her to him, and he certainly fucked her like he means it. 

Lyra was glad that, at least among other things, their hatred towards each other was mutual. Now that the lust and the high had started wearing off, leaving only bleak loathing and pure annoyance, she wanted nothing more than to get out of here as soon as possible. 

She wanted to go back to her family, to her little stardust girl and her husband and her only home in Coruscant and the entire galaxy. She tried to ignore him, pretending that he doesn’t exist.

“It’s not that hard to deduce, you know,” he continued, casually, as if they were two old friends having a simple conversation, and she had to spare him a glance. Orson was back in his chair, leaning back, watching her getting dressed, already back in his trousers and regulation undershirt. She could imagine him tallying this up as a victory, and, after she left, he’ll pour himself a glass of wine or two, his brain already cooking up further plans. She could feel her heart clench, again. “You were not that hard to read. And you’ve always, always strike me as a self-effacing type. You _are_ a masochist, aren’t you?”

He grinned at her, rakish, his hair no longer slicked back and proper like the man he was supposed to be, to everyone else but Lyra, and her hatred of him flared up, a contained blast. She pulled back her lips into a sneer.

“And you thought you’re not _that_ hard to read, Orson?” She raised an eyebrow, buttoning her tunic. “I know what you’re thinking. You think this is some sort of a victory. In fact, I’m sure you’ve engineered this entire affair. You tried to tempt me,” she added, dusting her clothes and straightening herself up. “Just so you could use it as a weapon against me later on. _You wanted Galen_.”

Galen’s name on her lips was sharp, jagged, a blaster shot aimed against Krennic. Krennic, who had masterminded their rescue from Vallt. Krennic, Galen’s oldest friend from the Futures Program. Krennic, who was now sitting across the room with his lips pressed together into a thin line. The city-planet behind him glistened and glowed. Lyra smiled, slowly, savouring the moment.

“Remember,” he told her, just as slowly, preparing for his final shot. She checked her things. “I know your secrets.”

“And I know _yours_.”

“Not all of them,” he laughed, although she detected an undertone of a snarl, and once more she glimpsed the monster. Once more, she reached for her courage and found it.

“If you harm my family in any way, Orson,” she told him, softly, looking him straight in the eye, those eyes bluer than the sky above her childhood home, bluer than glaciers, bluer than deceptions and cruel bargains. “Then Stars, I _will_ destroy you.”

“You can try,” Krennic simply told her, his smile enigmatic, but Lyra had no plans to find out. She knows that one of them would come to the other again, soon enough—she knows it for certain, a sinking feeling at the bottom of her stomach—and Stars knows that she’s not strong enough to end this vicious affair just yet, but she had no intention to stay here for longer than necessary, to suffer his presence for longer than she needed to. She turned to leave.

“Lyra,” he called out, and she stopped for a moment, catching a glimpse of him from the corner of her eye, this time framed by the dazzling artificial lights of Coruscant. “You’re on the wrong side. I _will_ win.”

She left, then, and returned to her home, her daughter, her husband. She thought of Orson’s words that night, tossing and turning in her own bed, her husband by her side, sleeping soundly, and she’s certain of one thing: he will not.

She will not let him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks for reading! Comments and suggestions are always welcome. hmu on tumblr: orsonkraennic. I don't bite. Well, mostly.


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